EVERY man has a bucket list of achievements he dreamed of as a boy before bowing to societal pressure and pretending he meant a threesome. These are his true wants:
Drive a big digger
All young boys are transfixed at the sheer awesomeness of massive machines that scoop of dirt with a big iron hand. Secretly even Will Self wants to don a hard hat, climb into the cab with a flask of tea and move shit from one location to another.
Climb Everest
Before you find out about climbing Everest – the queues, the frozen corpses, the human shit – you have a vision. A vision of ascending the peak, ice axe in hand, looking at the whole world spread below you and unzipping your flies for a piss.
Have something named after you
Every man believes that in adulthood he’ll be recognised by more than just the barman and his mum. A street named after you? A park? A craft ale? All seem possible when you’re in the playground. In the end the closest you get is a rare kind of malignant tumour.
Win a major sporting event
The FA Cup, Wimbledon, Formula 1 or for duller children golf: it was a given you’d hoist a cup at some stage. After all, you’d already won the sack race at Cubs and had so much promise. Now you see Olympians and jealously sneer ‘sad wankers’.
Live off-grid for a bit
All men believe they are resourceful enough to live sustainably in the woods somewhere. Every middle-aged Bear Grylls viewer half-remembers a few survival techniques. Now, fat and comfortable, even the thought of five days at Glastonbury brings a shudder.
Be an astronaut
Gargarin, Armstrong, the film Armageddon: each kindled a desire to swap a Next for Men suit for a spacesuit and head off for space. Except it’s expensive, or requires a lifetime of training, and anyway Tim Peake did it and was little more than an orbital birthday greetings service. Never joining the 240 mile high club is a small price to pay.
Settle an old score
F**king Ryan Whittaker thought he was so good because he had trials with Everton. You’d like to see him now and ask if he’s such a f**king big shot, and your old boss, and your ex. Except you do see them, on social media, and instead say ‘How’s things?’ pathetically.
Play James Bond
Could still happen. They’ve not chosen a new one. And it encompasses so many wishes within it: a licence to kill dickheads who bullied you, endless sex with exotic women, cool gadgets and everyone enjoying your puns. But can you swap the vodka martinis for a limeade?
